


No One Left

by chraezanty17



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Katniss' POV, POV First Person, Post-Mockingjay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-22 17:52:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3738037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chraezanty17/pseuds/chraezanty17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We're ghosts rather than beings of flesh and blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No One Left

**Author's Note:**

> Excuse my slightly clunky writing style. This One-Shot is fairly old.

I find that it takes to time to let go of old habits. In a way, it is a process similar to drug withdrawal. You have gotten used to something to such a degree that it hurts you both physically and psychologically to have it snatched away right from under your nose all of a sudden.

In my case, it's the book. Peeta and I have kept records of our combined knowledge and precious snapshots of life we remember for countless years, or so it seems at times. The second that he has finished drawing Effie's outrageous orange hair (Peeta almost laughed when he said he could not believe we had not thought of including that before) I immediately stop to think about the next picture.

What's it going to be?

Will we write something next to it in neat print, like we did next to the sketch of Annie's and Finnick's wedding?

Do we even have any paint left?

Naturally, a new book would have to be bought, but nowadays that is not an issue. Our old one has grown so huge and heavy that it could easily have been used for muscle training.

What shocks me is that nothing worth putting down on paper comes to my mind. Irrational panic grips me and I resort to recounting the last 28 years of my life.

Still, I find nothing. And that scares me.

I am brought out of my daze as my daughter starts crying. Peeta signals me to stay where I am, he'll take care of it. I'm grateful and I suppose he knows that, although it is common knowledge that I'm not exactly eloquent concerning voicing feelings aloud.

The girl was born about a week ago and is perfectly healthy. She has brown hair and blue eyes - quite lovely. He sketches her very often and I know she could not have asked for a better father. Still, some part of me has yet to deal with the fact that she is my daughter. In a way, it feels wrong, like watching the woman in the mirror and not recognising the stranger you have become.

I do not notice that the house becomes silent once more as her crying dies away and turns to deep breaths as she falls asleep. I cling to my book and frantically turn the pages, searching for something unknown.

A specific picture of Johanna Mason's axe glinting in the sunlight, half-buried in the white sand of a beach

( _tick tock_ )

catches my eye.

It all becomes clear.

I turn to Peeta, who has been standing behind my chair for a while now. We're ghosts rather than beings of flesh and blood, or so it would appear to any onlooker. Carefully, I take one of the cinnamon rolls he offers and say, "I need to see her."

He nods in understanding. How he would see what is on my mind, I don't know, but that doesn't make me any less happy. I really do need him to live, egotistical as I am, still. "Don't worry, we'll be fine."

"I'll be back in a few days." I walk up to the cradle and gently kiss the girl's forehead.

* * *

District 7 is not as loud as one would think, having an active industry. The houses and huts stand in a precise distance from each other and the Victor's Village, oddly enough, bears a striking resemblance to the ordinary part of town. But then again, I remind myself, the official barriers between the common people and the Capitol's former privileged have been broken down.

From personal experience, I know that for the latter group, it will never truly feel like that.

By the time I spot her, she is barely recognizable. My eyes roam over her athletic body, messy hair and flushed face. She's exercising even though it must be 100 degrees.

I stand there, simply watching her switch from push-ups to running to target practice with a bow and arrow. A wistful smile creeps on my face despite myself. Of course she would not use an axe, why would she? It would be as pointless as me shooting bull's eyes. We are experienced killers, after all, and we have our weapons of preference.

I remember Glimmer's failed attempts to shoot me as I sit up high in a tree and abruptly focus on the District 7 girl before I break down. It has happened with less frequency over the last few years, but that is no reason to willingly relive already familiar nightmares.

As if she has heard a noise, she turns her head and meets my gaze. For a second time seems to freeze as her expression remains blank, when she suddenly waves and shouts, ever so slightly out of breath.

"Katniss!"

I smile again, oblivious to the deadly weapon she's currently wielding as I stride over to her. A reasonably comfortable, quiet life tends to make a person reckless.

"Long time, no see."

* * *

I wrap my hands around the glass she gives me, sitting back in the small wooden chair. The kitchen is spartan, as is the rest of the house from what I've seen.

Johanna raises an eyebrow, seizing me up with an almost suspicious manner. Contradictorily, I relax.

"You look good. Except for the bloodshot eyes. How many nights have you not slept as of now - three, five?"

I chuckle, sipping my drink. As soon as the liquid runs down my throat, burning, I feel better. Maybe I have been around Haymitch for too long now, but from time to time, alcohol is a comforter greater than a person. People are complicated and egotistical at their core. Maybe I should know best.

"It's not that bad, honestly." I pause. "I had a baby a week ago."

Johanna's eyes widen and she bursts out laughing, catching me off guard. After she has leaned against a wall for support as not to fall over, she finds the strength to give me a response. "I always thought you'd end up as a bitter old woman screaming at playing children to have some respect and shut up already! You were the type that usually says children are just another thing to worry about, a burden. Add to that financial consequences and the pain of giving birth... I was like you on a larger scale. Still am, essentially." She scoffs. "Not that there'd be a guy around who could accidentally knock me up, but that's beside the point. So, what changed?"

I hesitate. "Peeta practically begged me. You should have seen him. He has always wanted a family and now he's insanely happy, so it's been worth it."

"What about you? Did you think he'd leave you if you wouldn't agree to have children?" I don't sense the bitterness, surppressed frustration and pity coming off her in waves as much as I recognize the tension in her shoulders. The two of us share a habit or two.

I shake my head. "Of course not! It's not like I was forced to. I just took a lot of time to be convinced, that's all." My voice does not shake, but it sounds monotone, which makes the entire situation even worse.

"Ten years." Johanna remarks dryly. She is obviously against me being a mother, as if that's even still open to be debated.

I'm rather shocked that she's been counting the years since we've last seen each other, or at least left District 13. I suppose she's angry that every one of us has moved on except for her. Understandable - I doubt that I would behave any different in her position. "Yes."

I draw a deep breath, but what comes out of my mouth is hardly deserving of the title 'whisper'. "I feel cold and detached. I look at her and my husband, every day, knowing that these should be the best years of my life and that I should be praising whatever God there is for the miracle that is the fact that I even have someone to care for me like that. It's-" I swallow.

"Have you heard from Annie or Gale?"

The sudden change of topic does nothing to better Johanna's mood. She grabs a bottle of absinthe and pours the liquid into the largest wine glass I have ever seen. "Well, Annie's son has apparently become a sports prodigy - Finnick would be proud."

For a second, her eyes take on a dreamy, far-away look as she reminisces about her old friend.

Only moments later, however, her frown comes back and she mumbles. "Gale's been coming around here a lot. Guy's stuck in the past, but then again, who am I to talk?"

She laughs curtly and throws back her head to swallow the rest of the alcohol. Already her movements are becoming more desperately controlled and it's obvious she is at least tipsy. For some reason, this depresses me a lot more than the now freshly ripped open wounds at the mention of Finnick and my former best friend.

All of a sudden, I feel like my airway has been cut off. I cannot seem to breathe properly and the wooden, plain walls of Johanna's home appear to come nearer and nearer (and nearer), trapping me in a dead end that stinks of corpses, infected wounds and failure as well as the distinct stink of alcohol.

I realize how foolish I have been. While I have withered away as summer turned into winter all of ten times in front of my window

( _the primroses were stubborn, continually beautiful as we were left to pick up the shards of our empty life with as little spilled blood as possible_ ),

she has been here. As I survived my nightmares and fears with Peeta's arms around me and my daughter's laughter echoing in my head, Johanna was still alone.

I had needed this trip - just not for the reason I had at first assumed.

I see that despite everything that has been ever wrong with my life, I am incredibly lucky.

By the time the moon shows its face and casts its light on the kitchen table, I am leaning against the door frame, observing the former Victor's broken and unconscious frame. I commit every single detail to memory - the way her limp ( _lifeless_ ) left hand has fallen to the ground, how her right hand desperately clutches the table cloth, how her hair spills out over her bony shoulders like a scarf.

Precious snapshots to be remembered among the overwhelming stench of liquor, to be savored for moments where I threaten to forget.


End file.
